CHAPTER III.
I know no reason why we--the readers and the writer--should not now quit those characters which have lately been occupying us, and return to others not less worthy of our care, till we have brought their actions and their feelings up to the same point of time whereunto we have conducted our other personages. The best form, perhaps I might say the most classical, in which a tale like the present can be related, with the exception of the autobiographical, is the dramatic; and holding strongly with the liberty accorded to British dramatists against the straight-waistcoat of Aristotelian unities, I believe that he who sits down to write a book like this has as much right to shift his scene and change his characters when he pleases as a playwright.
The necessity of so doing exists in the very state of being in which we live in relation to one another. Everyday we find that in five or six families, the actions of each of which have mutually a great influence on the others, events are occurring, and words are being spoken, which bring about great and important results in the general fate and relative position of those five or six families, and, in fact, work out their united history, without one house knowing at the time what was doing in the other. The task, then, of the writer, if he would follow the best of guides, nature, is to take such a group of five or six families, whose fate some common bond of union has linked together; and, changing from house to house as soon as the interest of the events in each requires the scene to be shifted, to paint what he there sees passing; and thus, in a series of pictures, to give the general history of the whole. Stupid must be the man, and impotent the imagination, weak the judgment, and treacherous the memory, which cannot bear the change of scene without a long refresher in regard to the people about to be seen again, or the events of which the writer is once more going to take up the thread!
Could not this change be made, the circumstances which were taking place at Morley House, and, what is still more important, the feelings which were thrilling in the bosoms of its inhabitants, would of necessity be all left untold, or be related in a long unnatural resume. In truth, the feelings of which we speak are worth some consideration; as feelings, indeed, always are: for, could one write the history of man's heart and its motives, how much more interesting, and instructive too, would the record be, than the brightest volume that ever was written upon man's actions!
For some time after Colonel Manners quitted Morley House, Marian de Vaux continued to sleep under the influence of strong opiates, which the medical man had found it necessary to give her in the morning. Whether he did right or wrong--whether it would have been better to let her meet grief boldly face to face, or was better to shield her from the violence of its first attack--each must judge as he feels; but he had known her from a child, and he had a notion that hers was a heart which would be easily broken if sorrow was suffered to handle it too roughly. At all events, while this state continued, she enjoyed a cessation from grief and apprehension; but still, how different was her slumber from the calm and natural repose of a heart at ease! The dull poppy with its leaden weight seemed to keep down and oppress feeling and thought, not to relieve and refresh them; and in her beautiful face, even as she slept, there was something which told that the slumber was not natural. Oh! the sweet profound sleep of infancy, how beautiful it is! that soft and blessed gift of a heart without a stain or a pang, of a body unbroken in any fibre by the cares and labours of existence, of a mind without a burden or an apprehension. It falls down upon our eyelids like the dew of a summer's eve, refreshing for our use all the world of flowers in which we dwell, and passing calm, and tranquil, and happy, without a dream and without an interruption. But, alas! alas! with the first years of life it is gone, and never returns. We may win joy, and satisfaction, and glory, and splendour, and power--we may obtain more than our wildest ambition aspired to, or our eager hope could grasp; but the sweet sleep of infancy, the soft companion of our boyish pillow, flies from the ardent joys as well as the bitter cares of manhood, and never, never, never returns again.
The apothecary had ventured on large doses of the drug, and Marian's slumber continued for many hours; but at length she woke, pale, languid, sick, with her ideas all confused, and yet her heart not the less ill at ease. "Is that Isadore?" she said, gazing towards the window at which some one was standing, and over which the shades of evening were coming dim and fast. Isadore approached her bed, and Marian asked eagerly, "What news?" She could not put her question in a distinct form, for her mind refused to fix itself precision upon anything; and besides, with the common self-cheatery of fear, she loved not to give her apprehensions voice.
"I have no news, dear Marian?" replied Isadore, sitting down by her. "Sorry I am to say that Colonel Manners has returned without any tidings; and he has since gone over to my uncle's, to see whether anything may be known there in regard to these extraordinary circumstances."
Isadore had framed her answer, with a view of alone hiding from Marian that anything had been discovered to confirm their fears, and of turning her mind from the search on which Colonel Manners had been employed: but the result went further than she had expected, or even wished; for it was her purpose only to break the force of grief, not to raise expectations which were likely to be disappointed. Hope, however, is the most adroit of diplomatists, and takes hold of the slightest word or circumstance in its own favour with skill and agility unparalleled. The words of Isadore, simple as they were, lighted again in a moment the half-extinguished flame in the bosom of her cousin. She remembered the suspicions concerning the illegitimacy of his birth, with which Edward had gone to visit the gipsies; she remembered his fiery and impatient nature, and the agitation into which even the apprehension had thrown him; and hope instantly suggested that he might have found his fears confirmed, and, wild with anger and distress, might have flown instantly to his father's house.
It is true he was on foot; it is true he had quitted the house during the night; it is true that he was not likely to take such a step without writing to relieve her mind; but it is the quality of hope to trample on improbabilities, and Marian de Vaux obtained a momentary relief. Still she would fain have had her hopes confirmed by the opinion of others: but she could not expect to do so without explaining the reason why she entertained them; and that reason could not be explained without entering into some details in regard to Edward's communication with the gipsy, which she knew not whether she were justified in making. Her mind was so confused with the effect of the remedies employed to obtain sleep, that she was long in determining what was the best to do, and remained silent, while Isadore kindly and gently strove to suggest as many motives for consolation as she could imagine. At length, however, as Marian revolved all the probabilities in her mind, she recollected that other causes might render the disclosure of Edward's feelings and intentions necessary; that he might not be found at his father's house; that strict and immediate investigation might be required; and that, under those circumstances, a knowledge of all that her lover had proposed to do previous to his sudden disappearance might be requisite to those who were employed in searching for him, in order to render that search at all effectual; and although she shrunk from the idea of betraying, in the slightest degree, the confidence he had reposed in her, yet she felt it necessary to give every information in her power which might lead to the result they sought. She determined, then, at length, to speak of what had passed between De Vaux and herself on the preceding day; and only hesitated whether to relate it to her aunt or to her cousin. Mrs. Falkland's kindness and strong good sense were not to be doubted; but yet Marian knew Isadore thoroughly, and knew that there was more judgment and tact under her usual gayety than was apparent. She knew, too, that with her she should be able to relate and to keep back just as much as she thought proper; while her aunt's keen and rapid questions, she felt, might draw from her more than she was justified in communicating.
"Do you know, Isadore," she said, at length, "I am in some hopes that Edward may be heard of at his father's house: it would not surprise me if he had gone thither."
Isadore felt that she had a delicate part to play. She was glad to see that Marian was more composed than she could have expected; and, of course, she would have wished to maintain that state of composure, till apprehension gradually changed into grief, without any new shock to her feelings: but she still felt that she had no right to encourage hopes which must soon be broken; and she replied, "I am very happy, dearest Marian, that you do think so; but is it not strange that he should go thither, and be so long absent, without letting any one know, when he must have felt that so many would be uneasy?"
"It is strange," replied Marian; "but I think I can account for that. I am about to tell you something, Isadore, which you must make what use of you think fit, in case Colonel Manners has not found poor Edward at Dewry Hall; but as it refers to matters which he might not wish told to any one, you must ask me no more than I am inclined to speak; and unless it be necessary, perhaps, had better not mention it to any one but my aunt."
"I will obey you to the letter, dear cousin," replied Isadore; "but I foresee that you are going to speak of his visit to the gipsy, which, indeed, surprised us all."
"It is the cause of that visit I am about to tell you," answered Marian; "for perhaps the facts connected with it may throw some light on the business, if Edward be not at his father's. But you remember, Isadore, that Colonel Manners went up yesterday morning to the gipsies--I believe, because you teased him about them."
"Yes, indeed, I believe it was one of my silly jests," replied Isadore, with a sigh, "that made him go at all. I shall leave off jesting for the future, Marian."
"Nay, nay! never, Isadore!" replied Marian, shaking her head. "However, Colonel Manners brought Edward down a letter from one of them called Pharold, which distressed him a great deal; for it told him things concerning our own family, and his part of it particularly, which would be very terrible if true. He determined, after speaking to me upon the matter, to go up to the common this morning, in order to investigate the whole; and if he found any reason to believe that the gipsy spoke the truth, his mind, I am sure, would be in such a state that he would hardly know what he was doing. Under these circumstances, it is very likely that he might go over at once to inquire more of his father, without thinking of anything else in the pain and anxiety of the moment."
"No, Marian, depend upon it, he would think of you," cried Isadore, somewhat incautiously.
"I could easily forgive him for not doing so," replied Marian, "notwithstanding all the pain I have suffered, if I could be sure that he is safe at the Hall."
"Pray God it maybe so!" replied Isadore; "and if it be, we shall undoubtedly hear from Colonel Manners to-night."
There was something so despairing in the tone with which Isadore pronounced--"Pray God it may be so!" that Marian took alarm. "Isadore," she said, looking at her steadily, "I hope you are not deceiving me. Your heart is not one to be so easily cast down; your lips, dear cousin, are not accustomed to such sad sounds. Tell me the truth, Isadore, I beseech you. Have you heard anything of Edward?"
"No, indeed, Marian!" replied Isadore, glad that she had put her question in such a shape that she could give it a negative; and yet hesitating a little at the utterance of one word approaching insincerity, a vice that her mind had never known. "No, indeed," she said, "no one has heard anything of him as yet."
Marian marked her hesitation, however, and replied, in a low voice, "I should always like to know the truth, Isadore; and I am sure you would tell it me, dear cousin. You know how I love Edward; and I think it no shame to acknowledge to you, Isadore, that I do not believe there ever was a human being that loved another as I have loved him." She paused; and though she knew that Isadore needed no new insight into her heart to see how totally that heart was given to Edward de Vaux, yet, as she spoke, the crimson came again into her cheeks, and mottled her brow and temples, even to speak her love in the hearing of one who already knew it so well. "Nevertheless, Isadore," she continued, "feeling afraid of my own heart, and my own great happiness, I have schooled myself to remember that the blessings of this world are anything but permanent, and have prepared myself to say, if God should require me to yield them, 'Thy will be done.' Of course, since Edward went into active service, I have felt it the more necessary to be always thus prepared; and though I have tried not to imbitter existence by apprehensions, nor to keep myself in continual fear, I have endeavoured never to forget that Almighty Wisdom may hourly require sacrifices, at which we must not repine."
"You are indeed a sweet creature!" cried Isadore, casting her arms round her cousin's neck; "I wish that I were half as good!" Marian leaned her brow upon her cousin's shoulder; and when Isadore again looked at her, she found that Marian was weeping.
In a few moments Marian wiped away her tears, and went on: "You will think that, after boasting of all this preparation, I ought not to be so overcome now--nor, indeed, so much as I was this morning; but the truth is, when Edward returned, half my fears vanished. I thought that all danger was over; and little remembered that he who had escaped from battle and from storm, might be snatched from me in the bosom of peace, and in his own home. But I am better now, Isadore, and firmer, and stronger; and therefore I will beg you and my aunt to let me hear at once everything that occurs; for though you are interested too, I know, deeply and sincerely, yet you can neither of you feel as I do."
"Perhaps that is the very reason, dear Marian," replied Isadore, "why it would be better to keep from you all the rumours and reports, which could only rack all your feelings with alternate hopes and fears, without leading you even to any certain conclusion."
"Oh, no!" said Marian; "no! let me hear all, Isadore! I am now again prepared. I do not say that I shall not weep--I do not say that I shall not be anxious--I do not say that I shall not tremble with hope and fear: but I do say, Isadore, that the knowledge of whose hand it is that guides the whole--and my firm, perfect, undoubting, unchangeable belief that His will is mercy, and His way is wise--will be my support and consolation to the end."
"And I will never believe," said Isadore, warmly, "that He will leave such confidence unrewarded and unprotected."
"Oh, no!" answered Marian; and she then added, in a sadder tone, "But He, seeing more wisely than we do, may yet think fit to afflict us, Isadore. However, I am still prepared, and will meet whatever may come, as little repining as I can."
The conversation proceeded for some time in the same tone, nor was its effect small in soothing the mind of her who suffered; for, in moments of grief, the human heart forgets all the treasured consolations which reason, and philosophy, and religion have garnered up in years of tranquillity; and it is not till we examine the stores that we have gathered that we remember the sources of comfort which we ourselves possess.
Marian then expressed her intention of rising, and begged Isadore to send her maid from the dressing-room. Her cousin would fain have dissuaded her; and proceeded to inform her mother of Marian's intention of coming down to the drawing-room; but Mrs. Falkland did not disapprove of the idea, especially when she learned from Isadore the state of her niece's mind. "We must endeavour," she said, "to keep any sudden tidings of evil from our poor Marian; but in other respects, perhaps, occupation of any sort may do her good; for I know too well, Isadore, that nothing can be worse than the fears and the pains with which our own imagination fills up the interval of suspense, when, alone and sleepless, we sit and watch away the weary hours, till doubt and fear have grown into the too painful certainty."
Marian was not long in following her cousin to the drawing-room; and though a few tears rolled over her cheeks as Mrs. Falkland pressed her to her bosom, she soon regained at least the appearance of composure. By degrees she learned all that Colonel Manners had discovered, except the indications which most strongly tended to confirm his apprehensions for De Vaux; and she heard, also, all that he had done towards obtaining further and more certain information. Marian, however, inferred, from the measures that had been taken, that both her aunt and Manners did entertain serious fears; and her heart sunk to find her own alarm confirmed by that of persons so much more thoroughly acquainted with the world than herself. Soon after she had come down, the servant, who had been despatched to Mr. Arden, returned with the tidings that he was absent from his own house, and was not expected back till the next morning. Inquiries, too, were made by the people who had been left to guard the wood, whether it were necessary to keep up their patrol all night; and in Manners's absence, Mrs. Falkland ordered it to be done at any expense. Many a rumour, too, of many a likely and many an unlikely occurrence, reached the drawing-room through the old butler, who, with one other man-servant, had been retained in the house while the rest had been despatched to reinforce the people on watch round the wood.
Thus passed the evening, but no tidings arrived from Colonel Manners; and as minute after minute and hour after hour went by after the period which they calculated might have brought them the news of De Vaux's being at his father's house, the hopes of all the party sunk lower and more low, and at a late hour Mrs. Falkland persuaded Marian again to go to bed.
Sleep, indeed, visited Morley House but little during that night; and the next morning early, a note was received from Colonel Manners, informing Mrs. Falkland that nothing as yet had been heard of De Vaux. So far Mrs. Falkland communicated the tidings she had received to Marian, before she had risen; and, notwithstanding all the fortitude she had endeavoured to assume, and the most careful guard she had been enabled to put upon her heart, yet Marian had so far encouraged hopes which now suffered disappointment, that medical aid was again obliged to be called; and it was judged expedient once more to dull her sense of grief and fear by strong opiates. The latter part of Colonel Manners's communication, which spoke in plain terms of the murder of poor De Vaux, Mrs. Falkland did not, of course, read to her unhappy niece. In it, however, he informed her, that when he arrived at Dewry Hall, he had found measures already in progress for arresting the supposed murderers upon another charge, and had waited to know the result. They had proved, unfortunately, without effect, he said; as no one had been taken but a lad, from whom he was afraid little satisfactory information was likely to be gained: but still it was his purpose, he added, to go over to Dimden with Lord Dewry, previous to returning to Morley House, in order to hear personally what evidence could be extracted from the prisoner. In conclusion, he recommended, if Mr. Arden had not taken measures for searching the wood in which the gipsy had been seen, before his letter arrived, that such a step should be resorted to directly; as the messenger who brought the news of the affray at Dimden had not been able to say whether Pharold were present or not.
After the receipt of this letter, Mrs. Falkland waited anxiously for the arrival of Mr. Arden; but it was late ere he came. He then asked eagerly what further discoveries had been made, and Mrs. Falkland communicated to him the substance of Colonel Manners's letter. The old gentleman, whose heart was warm and kind, notwithstanding a certain degree of severity of manner, and a persevering adherence to the letter of the law, which often made him appear harsh and unfeeling, sympathized truly with De Vaux's family; and spoke of Marian, and the state of bereavement and distress into which her cousin's loss must have cast her, with words of tenderness and pity which brought a bright drop or two even into his own eyes. He then touched as delicately as his nature permitted upon the subject of Lord Dewry's letter to him, which he had received that morning; and triumphed a little in the accuracy of the opinion he had formerly given in regard to Pharold the gipsy being the real murderer of Mrs. Falkland's late brother.
Mrs. Falkland started, and combated the idea with various arguments, which had been satisfactory to her own mind at the time. Mr. Arden, however, informed her, that in his letter of that morning, Lord Dewry had asserted, that he had acquired positive proofs of the gipsy's guilt; and Mrs. Falkland was silent, but not convinced. That Pharold, either in some fierce dispute, or in some accidental affray, might have killed her unfortunate nephew, or that his companions might have done so, without his will or concurrence, Mrs. Falkland did not doubt: but she had heard too much of his character and behaviour in youth to believe that, twenty years before, when he was still a young man, he could have been so hardened in guilt as, for the purpose of paltry plunder, to take the life of the only man for whom, with the exception of his own tribe, he had shown affection. For Lord Dewry's fierce accusation on the present occasion, she accounted easily by a knowledge of his character, and conceived it very possible that the rage and hatred which he felt at the very idea of the gipsy having murdered his son, might make him regard as proof positive any slight additional suspicions which he had found cause to form against Pharold in regard to his brother's death. However, as she took no pleasure in speaking of her brother's weaknesses, she made no answer; and Mr. Arden began his proceedings for the purpose of causing the wood in which Colonel Manners imagined he had seen Pharold to be so thoroughly searched as to ascertain, beyond a doubt, whether the gipsy still remained in it or not.
As all those who have attempted to search a wood must know the task is not an easy one; and before a sufficient number of people could be collected, and all the orders and directions could be given, it was late in the day. As the men, however, who had kept patrol for so many hours were now weary of the task, and there existed many doubts whether any inducement would make them undertake it during another night, there was no possibility of delaying the search till the following morning; and Mr. Arden accordingly set out, taking as many of Mrs. Falkland's servants with him as could by any means be spared, in order to make their proceedings as effectual as the short remaining space of daylight permitted.
During his absence Mrs. Falkland and her daughter remained in that painful and exciting state of suspense in which every minute has its expectation, and every minute its fear; and as Marian still slept, Isadore walked out into the garden, in hopes of finding some refreshment in the cool air of the autumn evening. When she had passed about half through the garden, with her eyes turning mechanically from time to time upon the flowers, but with her thoughts far otherwise occupied, she perceived a boy of about ten years of age, who worked under the gardeners, approaching her, cap in hand.
"Please, miss," he said, "I think I have found out something."
"And pray, what have you discovered, Harry?" demanded Isadore, as he paused.
"Why, ma'am," answered the boy, "I heard the gentleman yesterday, and all the folks, indeed, talking of footsteps, and asking where there were any to be seen, in sorts of unlikely places--"
"And have you found any?" exclaimed Isadore, speaking eagerly, from some of those vague, and often fallacious anticipations which rush upon the mind in thousands when it is excited by any strongly-moving cause.
"Why, yes, ma'am, you see," replied the boy; "the gardener, when he was going away to search the wood, sent me down to the other side of the park to cut some box for the borders; and by the little door close by the river, which has not been opened these two years, I saw the marks of a gentleman's foot in the gravel, which is softish down on that walk, and greenish, too, for it ha'nt been turned this autumn."
"But how do you know it was a gentleman's foot?" demanded Isadore. "It might be either the gardener's, or the under-gardener's, or the gamekeeper's, for anything you know, Harry."
"No, no, miss," answered the boy; "I know it was a gentleman's, for they have little feet, and this was not bigger than mine; and it was not a woman's foot, because the heel was different."
"And a boy's?" said Isadore; "why might it not be a boy's?" The youth rubbed his head, saying, "It might be a boy's, miss; but I do not think it, miss, any how: I am sure it was a gentleman's--quite sure."
Isadore endeavoured to discover the grounds of this certainty; but when people whose ideas are not very clear upon a subject are pressed by those who would fain help them to disentangle the ravelled skein of their thoughts, they not unfrequently take refuge in a sort of blank stolidity, which prevents others from finding out the causes that they themselves are not able to explain. Such was the case in the present instance, and the only answer that Isadore could obtain to her questions, shape them how she would, was, that he--the boy--was sure that the footmarks were those of a gentleman.
With these tidings, however, with every willingness in the world to believe that they were true, and with a long train of phantom hopes to boot, Miss Falkland returned to her mother, taking the boy to the house with her. Mrs. Falkland listened with attention, and replied that it would be at least worth while to send down the old butler directly, to ascertain the facts more precisely.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, do not send him, mamma!" exclaimed Isadore. "He is so fond of miracles, that he will declare it is the foot of an elephant. We shall never come at the truth from him."
"But whom can I send, then?" demanded her mother. "All the other servants are away; and both the gardener and under-gardener are with Mr. Arden."
"I will go myself, mamma," replied Isadore. "I shall have plenty of time to get there and back before it is dark; and I will take the boy with me to show me the place."
"You are right, Isadore," replied Mrs. Falkland: "the fact may be of no importance, but it may be of much; and, consequently, it is worth our own examination. I will go with you, my love, if Marian be still asleep. Wait one moment, and we will go and judge together."
Mrs. Falkland was not long absent. Marian was still lying overpowered with the opium; and the two ladies, having joined the boy in the hall, set out upon the search. While her mother was absent, however, Isadore called her own maid, and stationed her at one of the windows, whence she could see the spot to which the boy referred, and the path leading to it. She gave her also directions to remain there, and, in case of either Mrs. Falkland or herself making a signal, to send or come down to them in all haste. "I feel a sort of presentiment," thought Isadore, as she gave the orders, "that this expedition will end in something of importance."
Whatever it was likely to end in, the maid obeyed her orders as punctually as such orders generally are obeyed; that is to say, she remained two minutes at the window; and having seen Mrs. Falkland and Isadore walk about a hundred steps upon the path, she thought, "Dear me! I can just get the cap I was trimming, and be back again here long before they are at the other side of the park." But, as she crossed the hall, she met with the old butler, who detained her just to ask her where his mistress and Miss Falkland were gone; and then told her a story, which he had heard when he was young, and the incidents of which were very like those connected with the fate of poor Mr. Edward de Vaux. Every hair on the maid's head stood on end, and gave her so much occupation, that, ere she could get back to her post, it was too dark to trim the cap any further; she therefore, immediately and punctually, turned her eyes on the spot which her mistress had directed her to observe, and watched most carefully, now that she could see nothing at that distance.
CHAPTER IV.
Isadore and Mrs. Falkland, in the meantime, took the little path towards the brink of the river, in the immediate neighbourhood of which lay the spot where the boy had remarked the footsteps. Mrs. Falkland had lived too long in the great school of disappointment, human life, to suffer her expectations to be greatly excited; but Isadore, with a spirit naturally more enthusiastic, and as yet unchastened by any deep sorrows, felt her heart beat high, and her hopes struggle up against her fears, as she set out to take a more active part than she had hitherto been able to assume in the search for her cousin. The path wound along through the park, meandering considerably, perhaps in conformity to the taste of some ancient layer out of parks, or perhaps in consequence of the usual roundabout and circuitous nature of man's paths. Isadore, like all ardent minds, was tempted to make a more direct way for herself across the lawns; but Mrs. Falkland, in a more practical spirit, remembered that the grass was damp, and that it was not worth while to wet her feet for the purpose of saving half a minute. She adhered, therefore, to the gravel; and, as her more venturous daughter met with a little swamp occasioned by a spring, which obliged her to go round, they arrived at the spot they sought about the same time.
The spot itself, however, needs some description, and, indeed, it has been already described once before, with a special injunction to the reader to remember all the points and bearings which were then detailed. However, lest memory should be treacherous, we will once more take a view of the scene, as it was presented to the eyes of Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, who were at that moment looking exactly west-north-west. Before them was a little shrubbery of evergreens and indigenous plants, kept as low as possible, so as just to hide the wall of the park, against which it rested, and yet not to cut off from the windows of the house a beautiful rocky bank, which rose on the other side of the wall to the height of a great number of feet. This bank formed one of the faces of a small wooded promontory, or rather peninsula, which was joined on to the hills by a narrow neck, over which the high-road passed after having skirted the other wall of the grounds. It was surrounded everywhere but at that point by the river. The summit was covered with rich wood; and down the sides also, in every place where the rock did not rise up abrupt and bare, a thousand various trees and shrubs had rooted themselves in the clefts and crevices, or towered up like pinnacles from the top of every detached fragment, and overhung the calm, still bend of the river, which served as a mirror to all the beauties round about it. The setting sun, with his lower limb just resting on the western hills, was pouring a flood of splendour down the valley of the stream; and his full light bursting upon the face of the rock to the left of Mrs. Falkland and Isadore, found its way round in bright catches of purple light, illuminating every tree and angle of the rock that stood forward before the rest.
Pouring on, too, the beams streamed down the little footway which--cut through the low shrubbery to a door in the wall--led out to another path running from the high-road to the river, between the park and the cliff; and by the clear light thus afforded it was easy to see the marks of which the boy had spoken. They seemed to have been made by some one coming from the grass on the side of the river upon the soft gravel of the path, and had turned suddenly towards the door, where they disappeared, as if the person had passed through. They were small, too, as the boy had described, and were evidently not a woman's; but neither Mrs. Falkland nor Isadore were sufficiently well acquainted with De Vaux's footprints to feel anything like certainty concerning them. It were vain to deny, however, that the hopes of both were raised, though Heaven knows those hopes were vague and indistinct enough. Had either Mrs. Falkland or Isadore been asked what they expected to find, they would probably have answered, "Edward de Vaux;" but had they been required to assign a reason for such expectations, to account for his absence, or to point out any principle upon which he could have abandoned the society of those he loved, and yet linger in their neighbourhood, they would have been embarrassed for a reply. But affection does not pause to argue. Hope, too, is ever most powerful when she triumphs over reason, and, though it may seem a paradox, expectation is never so vivid as when we know not what we expect. Hope, then, as bright as sunshine, but as vague and undefined as that sunshine when it streams through the morning mist, was lighted up by the sight of those footsteps. As Mrs. Falkland gazed on them, and traced them distinctly to the door, she exclaimed, "How very stupid it was of me not to bring the key!"
"I have a key, ma'am," said the boy, groping in the pocket of his jacket; and producing it accordingly, he advanced to the door and opened it. Mrs. Falkland now looked eagerly for more traces; but none were to be seen close to the door, though the ground was composed of a reddish sort of sand, which would easily have taken the print of even a light foot. At the distance, however, of about five feet were to be seen two deep marks of the same kind, but close together, with the heels more profoundly indented in the sand than the front of the foot; and it became evident that some one had leaped from the top of the wall. This was made still clearer, when, turning back, Mrs. Falkland examined the door, on the top of the lock of which several patches of gravel had been left by the foot of some one who had taken that means to reach the summit of the wall. In the mean time Isadore was eagerly tracing on the footprints, which led straight from the deeper marks to the bank; and on one of the large stones close by the river, she soon found the impression of a foot in red sand stamped upon the green mould with which the fragment of rock was covered.
"Here, mamma, here," cried Isadore. "He must have passed here, and that since the rain of last night, too; for if you look, the marks are quite sharp, while some old ones going down towards the water are nearly washed away. I should not wonder if he were here now."
"Hark!" said Mrs. Falkland; "did you not hear a noise above there?"
They listened, but all was silent; and at length Mrs. Falkland added, "We have done wrong, my love, in not bringing more people with us, even if they were but women. The wood is so small and so shut in by the river that it might be searched easily."
"Send the boy back to the house, mamma!" cried Isadore, quickly: "he can bring down the butler, and probably some of the others may have returned. We can remain here, and watch till they come."
"But, Isadore," said Mrs. Falkland, gravely, "it is growing dusk and late, and the place is lonely and obscure: I do not see any good that two women can do here alone."
"Oh, Harry will be back in a moment, mamma," cried her daughter; "and, besides, nobody could hurt us. Any one on the high-road would hear a scream from this place."
Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued eagerly,--"I will tell you how we can manage it then, so that there can be no danger. Send him back for the people, and you go into the park to the little mound; there you can see the high-road quite across the point."
"But I will not leave you here alone, my love," cried Mrs. Falkland, in some surprise at the proposal: "indeed I cannot think of doing that."
"But, mamma, I have been here a hundred times alone before," replied Isadore; "and, besides, what I mean is, to get up to that little point where Marian and I have sat many a day. When I am there, you will be able both to see me and to hear me if I speak to you; and if any danger were really to happen, I could make the people with the cattle in the opposite meadow hear me, while you could also make them see or hear you from the house; and I set Charlotte at the window to watch."
Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued rapidly, "Run, Harry, up to the house as fast as ever you can go; bring down Mr. Gibson and any of the men you can find, and do not lose a minute."
"I am afraid that this is not very prudent, Isadore," said Mrs. Falkland, as the boy ran off like lightning; "but I suppose your plan is the best one to follow now that he is gone. I will turn back to the mound then, while you go up there. But if the boy does not return before the twilight grows thicker, come down, by all means."
"I will come down whenever you tell me, mamma," said Isadore; "and I can hear everything you say at the mound."
Without more words, then, Mrs. Falkland hastened to take up her station at a little rising ground in the park, from the summit of which she could see, not only the whole of that part of the high-road which crossed the neck of the little promontory, but also the extreme angle of the cliff above the river. Isadore, in the meanwhile, climbed up by a steep and somewhat rugged path, which had been made at her request some years before, to a small point of rock which commanded a view both up and down the river, and afforded one of the most picturesque landscapes, on either side, that the country possessed.
The height was not more than ten or twelve feet above the stream, and the distance from the mound in the park not a hundred yards, so that any one speaking in a loud voice could be heard from one spot to the other. The ascent, however, while it continued, was steep, and Isadore's heart beat when she reached the top--nor, perhaps, was it the exercise alone that made it palpitate. Although she had not displayed any fear, she was not without some slight degree of alarm; and felt not a little of that sort of excitement and agitation which is not indeed fear, but which often produces very similar effects. She looked back as soon as she reached the point of the rock, but Mrs. Falkland was not yet in sight. Another instant, however, brought her mother to the top of the mound, and Isadore demanded, "You can see the high-road, mamma, can you not?"
Mrs. Falkland did not at first distinguish what her daughter had said, and Isadore repeated the question. Not that in this inquiry she was at all influenced by fear, although it might appear so; but, in truth, Isadore's eagerness to send back the boy for aid, and remain upon the watch, had originated in a little stroke of strategy which was not ill-conceived, considering that it sprang from the brain of a young lady.
That there was some one in the wood above them Miss Falkland was quite convinced; and to ascertain who it was she knew was a great object at the time being. It had instantly struck her, therefore, that, by dividing their forces, her mother taking up a position on the little mound, whence she could see along the whole of the high-road, and down a considerable portion of the little lane under the wall, while she, Isadore, placed herself on the point which commanded a view of two other sides of the promontory, no one could well escape from the wood without coming under the eyes of one or the other of the fair watchers. She did forget, it is true, that, supposing the fugitive to be a man, and that man not her cousin Edward de Vaux, neither herself nor her mother were the least capable of making him stay, and that their hunt might very likely end, while the boy was absent, like a famous hunt of yore, in the catching a Tartar. A vague sort of consciousness, it is true, that such might be the case, impressed itself upon her mind as she climbed to the little point above the river; but still her first question was directed to ascertain whether their line of watch was, as she hoped, secure and complete.
She repeated her inquiry then, in a louder tone, and Mrs. Falkland replied, "Oh, yes, I can see to the river on the other side. But, indeed, Isadore, it is growing very dark. I can scarcely distinguish the house."
Isadore still lingered, however; for the spot where she stood, looking eastward, caught more light than the rest of the scene. She thought she heard a slight rustling sound, too, above her, as of some one creeping through the bushes; and it must be confessed that her heart beat violently. Although, in truth, she now began to think her scheme a little rash, yet curiosity and anxiety for her cousin's fate still kept her where she stood. The next moment, however, she saw some one, indistinctly, pass through the bushes on the edge of the higher part of the bank, and imagination did much to persuade her that she recognised the figure.
"Oh, mamma," she exclaimed, "I see him, I see him!" but the figure was instantly lost behind some more trees. It was evidently still passing on to the eastward, as if to escape in that direction, for the branches rustled as it forced its way through; and Isadore took two steps back to catch another sight of it as it passed before a bare facing of rock at the extreme point. At that moment there was a sudden rush through the brushwood; and ere Isadore could see that it was nothing more than a fragment of rock given way under the foot of the person above, she started back, thinking that it was he himself springing down upon her, lost her footing on the edge of the bank, and, with a shrill scream, fell over into the river.
Mrs. Falkland shrieked also, and rushed forward to the stream; but the height from which Isadore had fallen had caused her instantly to sink, and nothing was to be seen by the mother's eye but the clear glistening expanse of the water, with the reflection of the cliffs, and trees, and banks, and of the fading purple of the sky, broken by a thousand rippling circles, where her child had disappeared. With the loud, piercing, thrilling cry of maternal agony, she shrieked again and again; and, as she did so, springing from rock to rock, with the swiftness and certainty of a wild goat, appeared the figure which Isadore had seen above her. He stood for a single moment on the spot whence she had fallen, and then exclaimed to Mrs. Falkland, below, "Where is she, woman? where is she?"
"There, there!" cried Mrs. Falkland, pointing to the spot; but as she spoke a bit of white drapery floated up to the top of the water, a little farther down the stream. Pharold paused no longer, but leaped from the bank--sank--rose again--and in the next moment, with his left arm round the slender waist of Isadore Falkland, and her head thrown back upon his shoulder, he struck with his right towards the margin, where the soft, meadowy sloping of the park afforded an easy landing-place. There, springing on shore, he laid his fair burden on the grass, but she was pale, and moved not; and Mrs. Falkland gazing with agony on the colourless countenance of her daughter, wrung her hands, exclaiming, "Isadore! Isadore! she is dead! oh, she is dead!"
"No, lady," said Pharold, kneeling down, and looking intently upon the fair face before him--"no, lady! she is not dead, nor has the water had any effect on her. That is not the face of a drowned person. She must have fainted through fear, and will soon recover."
"For God's sake, then, help me, sir, to bear her to the house," cried Mrs. Falkland; "do not, do not hesitate. You who have rendered us such infinite service, do not pause there, but make it complete by bringing her to a place where she may be recalled to life."
"What!" cried the gipsy, "to be taken and thrust into a prison! Do you not know that they are pursuing me on a charge of murder--pursuing me as if I were a wolf? Have you not, yourself, been sending out men to take the murderer Pharold?"
Mrs. Falkland had forgot all other fears in her fears for her daughter; but as Pharold suddenly recalled them, she involuntarily drew a step back, and gazed on him with terror; but it required scarcely the thought of an instant to make her remember that he had saved the life--at least she trusted so--of her only child; that he had risked his own existence to rescue a perfect stranger, and she exclaimed, boldly, "No, no! I will never believe it! You are not--you cannot be guilty. But we waste time--we waste the moments that may save my child. For pity's sake, for God's sake, aid me to carry her home. I have sent, but I see no one coming--they may be long--she may be lost ere they arrive. If you will come," she added, seeing the gipsy still hesitate, "I promise you that you shall go free, and well rewarded,--you shall be as safe as if you were in your own house."
"House!" exclaimed the gipsy; "I have no house! but I will believe you, lady--I will trust you;" and taking Isadore once more in his arms, he strode rapidly and powerfully forward, followed at the same quick pace by Mrs. Falkland.
He took not the way across the green, however, believing that he might there be met by the servants, and his retreat cut off; but passing through the low shrubberies, which were almost as near, he walked on towards the house in silence. Every moment the light was becoming less and less, but he threaded the walks as if he had known them from boyhood, and took all the shortest cuts to abridge the way. At length, however, he paused for an instant, and turning to Mrs. Falkland, he said, in a low voice, "She revives! I feel her breath upon my face!"
"Thank God! thank God!" replied her mother, in the same low tone; and the gipsy then abruptly added, as he resumed his way, "You believe me innocent, then."
"I do, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "I cannot believe a person guilty of a cool, deliberate murder, who could so boldly and generously risk his own life to save that of a fellow-creature,--it is not in human nature."
"It is not, indeed," replied Pharold, still striding on; "but why then did you send out men to hunt me as you would a wolf?"
"I sent them not out," she answered; "but when they went, I, too, thought that you might be guilty."
"The memory of your brother," said Pharold, "the memory of him who loved me, and whom I loved as I have never loved any other man, should have made you think differently. Was he a man to love one whose nature led him to deeds of blood?"
"He was not, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "but they charge you with his death, too."
"Ha!" cried Pharold, in a tone of unfeigned astonishment--"ha! that, then, is the well prepared, long-digested lie, is it? That they should accuse me of the gamekeeper's death I thought natural--though I would have given a limb to save him. That they suspected me of Edward de Vaux's, I heard without surprise; for men are always the fools of circumstances, and there were circumstances against me: but that, after twenty years, they should accuse me of the death of him that I loved more than any other thing but liberty, I did not think that villany and impudence could bring about,--and did you believe that, too?"
"No," replied Mrs. Falkland, very willing, by speaking the exact truth, to sooth the irritated mind of a man who had just rendered her so inestimable a service--"no, I did not believe it; and as soon as the charge was made in my hearing, I expressed my disbelief of it entirely."
"So, so!" said the gipsy, "there is some justice left! Lady, when you were four years old, I have carried you in these arms, as I now carry your daughter; and I thank you, at this late hour, for doing justice to one who was loved by those who loved you. No, no; I am not a murderer; and never believe it, whatever they may say."
They were now coming near the house; and Mrs. Falkland, with fears for Isadore somewhat relieved, would fain have asked the fate of her nephew; but at that moment the gipsy spoke again; and though, from the shadow cast by the trees of the shrubbery, she could not see in which way his eyes were directed, the tone of his voice, as well as the words themselves, showed her that he was addressing her daughter. "Be not afraid, lady, be not afraid," he said: "you are quite safe, though in hands that you know not; your mother is behind: lean your head on my shoulder, and keep quite still."
"Are you there, mamma?" said a faint voice, that went thrilling through all the innermost windings of Mrs. Falkland's heart. "Yes, my beloved Isadore; yes, my dearest child," replied the mother, "I am here, close beside you; and, thank God, you are quite safe!"
"Hush!" said the gipsy, "hush! If I am seen, I am lost, remember; and keep silence, if you feel that I have served you."
"Inestimably," replied Mrs. Falkland, in a low tone; and the gipsy, now emerging from the shrubbery, crossed a part of the lawn that lay between the angle of the wood and the house.
In the gray of the evening, a party of two or three persons might now be seen, though indistinctly, following the open path, about half-way across the park towards the cliff. But though he turned his eyes in that direction, the gipsy took no further notice of them; and, approaching the house, directed his course towards a glass door which led out from a small breakfast-parlour upon the lawn. Mrs. Falkland took a step or two forward, and opened the door; and Pharold carried Isadore up the steps into the room, and placed her in safety upon a sofa.
Her first action was to hold out her arms to her mother, with all that flood of gratitude, and tenderness, and joy flowing from her heart, which we feel on being restored to "this pleasing, anxious being," after having thought that we were quitting for ever the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Mrs. Falkland caught her to her bosom, and, locked in each other's arms, they wept as if they had lost a friend.
Well may philosophers say, that man never knows what joy is till he has tasted sorrow. Isadore and her mother had loved each other through life, without one of those petty rivalries, either for authority or admiration, without one of those jarrings of different purposes and opposing wishes which sometimes sap the affection of child and parent. They had loved each other through life dearly, and they knew it; but they did not know how dearly, till fate had nearly placed the barrier of the grave between them, and Isadore, safe and rescued, held her mother, weeping, in her arms. Who can explain such tears? Who can tell why the same drops which flow from pain or sorrow should be companions of the brightest joy? For who can trace the workings of the fine immortal essence within us, in its operations on the frail, weak tabernacle of earth in which it is enshrined?
However, they wept, and wept in silence; for both felt the bosom too full for speech, and both, from the still oratory of the heart, offered up thanks to God for the joy and relief of that moment. Nor was their happiness unfelt by him to whom, under the Almighty, it was owing. The gipsy stood and gazed upon them, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and the light of internal satisfaction glistening in his eye. There was something in the scene before him, and in those who were the actors therein, which connected itself with the long, long past; which woke up the memories of many a year, and which called up a thousand thrilling sensations that long had slept. But he had neither time nor inclination to let his mind rest upon all that chaos of pleasures, and regrets, and wishes, and hopes, and sorrows, and disappointments, which, when memory, awakened from her sleep, draws back the veil from the past, is presented to the eyes of every one who has lived an energetic and stirring existence. While one might count a hundred, perhaps, he paused, and gazed upon Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, giving way to the purest feelings of human affection, and suffered his thoughts to wander wildly over the years gone by; but then, starting from his revery, he remembered that he must depart.
"Lady, I go," he said. "May God bless you and yours, and send you ever, at your moment of need, one as willing and as able to help you as the gipsy has shown himself."
"Stay, stay one moment," said Mrs. Falkland. "You must not, indeed, leave my house unrewarded for the infinite service you have rendered me."
"I am rewarded already, lady," he said; "I am rewarded by what I have seen, I am rewarded by what I have felt, I am rewarded by knowing that there is one at least that can do justice, in her own heart, even to a gipsy. Lady, I must go: my stay is dangerous. Fare you well."
At that moment, however, there was a powerful hand laid upon his shoulder, and as he turned quickly round, he found himself faced by Colonel Manners, who still kept his hold of the gipsy's collar and shoulder, notwithstanding the sudden jerk he gave himself.
"You are my prisoner," said Manners, sternly. "Surrender at once, for resistance is in vain."
"Doubtless, doubtless," answered the gipsy, bitterly. "I have fallen into the trap, and it is useless to writhe. Oh, God of heaven! how often have I sworn never again to do a service to any of these human worms; for, if not punished by their own base ingratitude, some other evil is sure to follow, as if thou hadst sworn vengeance on every one that did an act of kindness to their outcast race!"
"You shall not suffer, however, for your service to me," said Mrs. Falkland, advancing. "I have pledged you my word, and I will redeem it.--Colonel Manners," she continued, "listen to me for one moment: this man has, within this quarter of an hour, saved my daughter's life, at the risk of his own."
"Indeed!" cried Colonel Manners. "May I ask how? I trust Miss Falkland is not hurt."
"No, not at all, I believe," replied Mrs. Falkland. "She fell from the bank into the stream--sunk before my eyes, Colonel Manners; and had it not been for his instant aid, she would have been now no more."
"I am most delighted, indeed, to hear of her escape," replied Manners; "and would to God it had been my fate to render her the assistance, instead of this person, for I should then have avoided a most painful duty. But, indeed, my dear madam, as it is--"
"Nay, say not a word more, Colonel Manners," interrupted Mrs. Falkland, "but hear my story out. He saved my daughter from the stream; he swam with her to land; but she was without sense or motion. I had nobody with me to help me, and I besought him, for the sake of Heaven, to do what my strength was, of course, not sufficient to perform, and to bear her home. He then told me his name; informed me that people were hunting him like a wolf among the woods; and asked if I could expect him to venture into the very midst of his enemies. I plighted my word for his safety--I promised him by every thing sacred that he should meet no impediment in quitting my dwelling; and upon that promise alone he came."
"I am sorry, my dear madam," answered Manners, calmly, but gravely, "that such a promise can only be binding upon yourself. Did it involve merely an act of politeness, of friendship, or of personal sacrifice, I would do anything in my power to oblige you: but there is a higher duty calls upon me than either courtesy or friendship, and I must obey its voice. I have a duty to perform towards the laws of my country--I have a duty to my dead friend; and, at any risk and all risks, I must and will obey it. I wish, with all my heart, that I had met this man anywhere but here; but wherever I meet him, I am not only empowered, but bound, by every principle of law and justice, to arrest him."
"Is there either law or justice, then, in arresting an innocent man?" demanded the stern voice of the gipsy.
"Of your innocence or guilt the law has still to decide," replied Manners. "An accusation of the gravest kind has been made against you, circumstances of strong suspicion have already been discovered to justify the charge. If you be guilty, it is but fit you should be punished; and if you be innocent, doubt not that you shall have equal justice."
"I did not expect this from you, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, bitterly. "Have you no regard, sir, to my plighted word? Have you no consideration for my honour? I have used entreaties, sir; but I now insist that he shall go; and, if necessary, I will call my servants and make them set him free. He has saved my daughter's life, Colonel Manners; he has come hither in my service, at my prayer, and upon my promise of safety; and if he had killed my brother, he shall go hence unimpeded."
"Madam, I believe you risk that supposition without a suspicion that it may be true," answered Manners. "But I must now inform you, that one of the principal charges against this man is the very fact of having murdered your late brother."
"And the charge is false, Colonel Manners," answered Mrs. Falkland, vehemently. "Whatever he may be now,--whatever he may have become since,--he was not then a man to shed blood, much less the blood of his friend and benefactor. He could have no motive but lucre, and that motive was wanting; for from my brother he might have had whatever sums he required. Nay, more, I have often heard my brother declare, that he would not take what he offered. But, as I have said, Colonel Manners, all other considerations apart, my word is pledged, and he shall go free."
"Noble heart! noble heart!" cried the gipsy. "On my hand rests not one drop of innocent blood, as there is a God above the stars! Neither do I fear death nor dread inquiry; but my liberty is more than my life, and what should I do, for months, a prisoner among stone walls and the vermin of the earth! He talks boldly of arresting me now, when he has got me here with dozens at his back; but let him take me five hundred yards hence, where I was ere I carried your daughter hither,--let him take me to the wood, or the bare hill side, where there are no odds against me,--and then, strong as he thinks himself, let him arrest me if he can."
Mrs. Falkland was going to speak again; and might, perhaps, have spoken angrily, for she was less calm than usual: but at that moment Isadore's voice made itself heard, though but faintly. "Colonel Manners," she said, "Colonel Manners, speak with me for a moment." Manners looked towards her as she lay on the sofa at the other side of the room; and he felt that to hear what she had to say distinctly he must, by going nearer, release the gipsy from the grasp which he still continued to maintain upon his collar. He felt also, what perhaps Isadore had at her heart felt too, that her voice was likely to have more effect with him than that of any one else; and as Manners had a strong inclination to do his duty rigidly, he somewhat feared her persuasions. However, he could not, of course, refuse to comply; but to guard against his prisoner's escape, he instantly locked both the doors of the little breakfast-room ere he approached her. He then--seeing the gipsy stand calmly with his folded arms, as if prepared to wait his decision--drew near, and bending down his head, "I am most happy, indeed," he said, "that you have not suffered any injury."
"And yet you would ruin the person who saved me," said Isadore; "but do not reason with me, Colonel Manners, for I have neither strength nor wit to contend with you. I want to persuade, not to convince you."
"That is what I am most afraid of," answered Manners with a smile.
"Do not be afraid," said Isadore, "but listen. Do you think, Colonel Manners, that a man who could murder Edward de Vaux would risk his own life to save Edward's cousin?"
"It is strange, certainly," answered Manners, "but--"
"Do you think, then," continued Isadore, interrupting him, "that a man who felt himself guilty of murder would go voluntarily to the midst of the friends and relations of the person he had killed, solely for the purpose of carrying home a poor girl that he had just saved from drowning? Your murderers, Colonel Manners, must be curious characters."
Could Isadore have beheld the face of her hearer distinctly, she would have seen that his cheek glowed a little with something like shame; but he answered, "I did not say, my dear Miss Falkland, that I thought him guilty. I only said, that the law required me to keep him a prisoner till he had proved his innocence."
"Well, then, Colonel Manners," rejoined Isadore, "since you do not think him guilty--and I know you do not--since there is every reason to think him innocent--since mamma has plighted her word--since he has saved my life--since he came hither solely to aid me--you must let him go, indeed you must--"
Manners hesitated, and looked doubtfully at the gipsy, as he stood, dark and shadowy, with his arms still crossed upon his bosom, and his eyes bent upon the ground. Isadore saw that a word more would conquer; and though her heart fluttered and her voice trembled to think how important that word might, perhaps, become at some future time, she made up her mind and spoke it, though in so low a tone that it fell on no other ear but his for whom it was intended. "Colonel Manners," she said, "you must let him go, indeed you must--" the words she added were, "for my sake!"
Manners was embarrassed in every way. Who shall say what he would, or what he would not have done "for the sake" of Isadore Falkland? but that was not all--had he really believed the gipsy guilty, he would have had no hesitation; but he did not believe him guilty. The manner in which Mrs. Falkland repelled the idea of his being the murderer of her brother was enough to make Colonel Manners entertain many doubts on a subject where his convictions had never been very strong; and the fact of the gipsy having saved Isadore's life at the risk of his own, and carried her home at the risk of arrest, were so irreconcilable with his guilt, that Manners began to doubt too in regard to the murder of De Vaux. He knew, undoubtedly, that he himself was not the person called upon to judge; but still, of course, his conviction of Pharold's guilt or innocence made a great difference in the degree of eagerness with which he sought to apprehend him.
But there were still several other motives for hesitation, when once he began to doubt. He felt that Mrs. Falkland was perfectly right in asserting, in every way, the inviolability of the promise she had made to the gipsy--he felt that the gipsy had a right to expect that it would be kept. He knew, also, that if Mrs. Falkland chose to call her servants, and order the liberation of the gipsy, in all probability any attempt to detain him would be in vain; and he was conscious, too, that in making the attempt, he was acting, at least, a very ungracious part. Still none of these motives, singly, would have restrained him, had he not felt the strongest doubts of the gipsy's guilt; but when a great many different motives enter into a conspiracy together to change a man's opinion, they are like smiths engaged in forging a piece of red-hot iron,--one gives it a stroke with his sledge-hammer, and another gives it a stroke, till, hard as it may be, it is moulded to their will. Manners, however,--although he might be led by many considerations to temper the stern rigidity of duty,--was not a man to abandon it altogether; and, therefore, he sought a mean which, as it was only at his personal risk, he thought himself justified in following, in order that Mrs. Falkland's promise might be held inviolate, and, perhaps, that Isadore might be obeyed.
"Well!" he said, after a moment's consideration. "All this business has happened most unfortunately, that I should meet a man here whom I am bound to apprehend, and who yet is guarded by a promise of safety. However, Mrs. Falkland, although I cannot abandon my own duty, yet I must do what I can to reconcile it with the engagement under which this person came here. I think you said," he added, turning to Pharold, "that if I would take you to the wood, or the bare hill-side, with no odds against you, I might arrest you if I could--did you not?"
"I did," said Pharold, "and I repeat it."
"Then we are agreed," said Colonel Manners. "I will do so, although I am fatigued and exhausted."
"Who has a right to be the most fatigued?"' cried the gipsy. "Have I not been hunted since the morning from wood to wood? Have I not had to double and to turn like a hare before the hounds? Have I not twice swam that quick stream? Have I had repose of mind or body, that you should talk of fatigue?"
"Well, well," said Manners, "all this matters little. I accept the proposal which you have yourself made; and I thus specify the terms. Though accompanied by me, you shall go free from this place in any direction that you please for one quarter of an hour; a space of time fully sufficient to put you out of all danger of being overpowered by numbers. At the end of that time you are my prisoner."
"If you can make me so," cried the gipsy: "if you can make me so."
"Agreed," replied Manners: "that is what I mean, of course; otherwise our agreement would be of no use."
"Colonel Manners," exclaimed Isadore, calling him back to her, for, in speaking, he had advanced a little towards the gipsy and Mrs. Falkland, "for God's sake, do not go. You do not know what may happen. Indeed, indeed, it is risking a valuable life most rashly. Let me persuade you not to go."
She made Colonel Manners's heart beat more rapidly than ever it had done in his life; for to a man who felt as he did, and who had nourished the fancies that he had, to hear the voice of beauty, and worth, and gentleness pleading to him for his own safety, was something much more agitating than the roar of artillery, or the rush of charging squadrons. Isadore spoke, too, in a voice low, from an effort not to appear too much interested, and a little faint, too, perhaps, from late agitation and exhaustion; so that there was, in fact, a great deal more of tenderness in her tone than she at all wished or intended.
"Nay, nay, Miss Falkland," answered Manners, who, in this instance, though gratified, could resist--"nay, nay, I have yielded as much as I can, indeed. I must either arrest this man here, or, out of respect to your mother's promise and to your entreaties, must let him depart to a spot where we may stand man to man, and then do my best to apprehend him there."
"Oh, let him go altogether, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland; "the one charge made against him is false, depend upon it; and in regard to Edward de Vaux, surely his conduct in saving Isadore may be taken as a proof that he is innocent there also. Why should you risk your life in a struggle where you know not how many may come against you?"
"Lady, you do me justice and injustice in the same breath," said the gipsy; "not one hand should be added to mine against his, if the whole world were inclined to assist the gipsy, instead of to oppress him. But at the same time, I tell him, as I have told you, that not a drop of innocent blood is upon this hand; that it is as pure as his own, and that I am more truly guiltless than those who boast their innocence and sit in high places."
"I think," said Manners, turning to Mrs. Falkland, "that we must here end all discussion, my dear madam. My mind is perfectly made up as to what it is my duty to do. The risk, in this instance, is merely personal; and from such I will never shrink; and I feel very sure, also, that there is no chance of failure."
"Be not too sure," said the gipsy.
"But, Colonel Manners," urged Isadore, "if this person will give us what information he possesses--if he will tell us what has become of Edward--if he will explain all, in short, will it not be better to gain those tidings, and let him go quietly, than to hazard so much on a chance which may be productive of no results?"
"But will he make such a confession?" said Manners; "will he give such information?"
The gipsy was silent; but Mrs. Falkland anticipated his answer. "Doubtless he will," she said, "if you will undertake to let him go free when he has done."
"Solely, if he can prove that Edward de Vaux is alive," answered Manners. "Words, my dear lady, can be of no use--I must have proof before I let him depart. He must not alone tell me what has become of my poor friend, but he must convince me that what he has told is true; otherwise I part not from him."
"I know not well," replied the gipsy, "whether I have even a right to tell what I know; and how can I prove it, without remaining in your hands, and under the curse of a roof where I can scarcely breathe, till those come who would thrust me into a prison, one month of which were worse than a thousand deaths? No, no! I neither will speak to be disbelieved, nor stay to be tortured, if I can win liberty by facing, singly, a thing of clay like myself. If you will keep your word with me, keep it now. If you would not play me false, throw open your door, and go out with me to a place where you shall see whether, with God's free air blowing on my cheek, and God's pure sky above my head, any single arm on earth can stay me, if I will to go." As he spoke, however, two or three dim indistinct forms passed across the windows, which still admitted the faint lingering twilight of an autumn evening, and the gipsy, dropping his arms by his side, listened for a moment attentively. "It is too late," he exclaimed, at length--"it is too late. You have kept me till the bloodhounds have come back; and you shall have the joy of seeing them worry their quarry before you."
"What is it you mean?" cried Manners. "Of what bloodhounds do you speak?"
"He means what, I am afraid, is too true, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "that Mr. Arden and the people sent to search the wood have just returned; and that, therefore, notwithstanding my word and your proposal, his apprehension in my house is the recompense he will receive for saving my daughter's life."
"Do not be afraid, my dear madam," said Manners, "I will find means to keep my word with him; but let us be sure that it is as you suppose, before we risk going out into the park. I think I hear sounds in the hall also."
Every one was silent; and the noise of distant footsteps and voices speaking was heard from the hall and vestibule; and in a moment after, some persons approached the very room in which Manners and the rest were standing.
The steps passed on, however, to the library; and at the door thereof paused immediately after, while the voice of the old butler said, "She is not there, sir," and the feet returned. They then heard the door of the music-room, which lay on the opposite side, open; and the butler again said, "Nor there." The next moment a hand was laid upon the lock of the very door near which they were standing, and Manners held his finger to his lips in sign of silence. The old man made one or two ineffectual attempts to turn the lock, and then repeated, "Nor there either; for the door is locked for the night--though it is very odd the housemaid should take upon herself to lock up the rooms when I am out. I am sure I cannot tell where my mistress is, sir, nor Miss Falkland either, unless they have both been spirited away, like poor Mr. Edward; for they certainly are not up-stairs in either of the drawing-rooms, nor at the place where the boy told me he left them. But now I think of it, I should not wonder if they were in poor Miss Marian's room; and if you will walk up into the drawing-room, sir, I will send to see."